


Spawn

by Pastel Comma (Regina_Hark)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Goblins, Id Fic, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Monster Girl(s), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Transformation, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-14 04:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16906452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regina_Hark/pseuds/Pastel%20Comma
Summary: Hollista Harrwell is not a goblin.And maybe if she says it long enough, she might actually start to believe it.





	1. the Girl and the Goblins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hollista summons a goblin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that Goblin Slayer fanfic... thing...? As tempting as it is to simply push my fantasy world/gods/locations into this, I've tried to keep it close to canon. Though, this is a AU. Goblin Slayer not killing a goblin? Fuckin' fake. But you can read it without reading Goblin Slayer. It's probably going to wind up being heavily AU due to the fact that the canon world of Goblin Slayer is vague as fuck. 
> 
> So if you're looking for something that respect the spirit of the canon, looks elsewhere. If you want to enjoy a shitpost? Welcome. 
> 
> Contains: Worldbuilding and Plot Set-Up.

Not enough goblins.

How could there ever be not enough goblins?

It is absurd. The frontier's infested with the little green brutes. For every stray blade of grass upon these hostile hills, there is a goblin waiting. Watching. Perhaps he is not alone. A pair of scouts overlooking a village settled in the wilds. Come nightfall, the first of many shall go missing and their bones to never see light of day again. Perhaps he is alone. A goblin with strength greater, grander than his kin. Hobgoblin. Or rather he covets power granted from the damned and demonic. Gobshaman.

It matters not. Who truly notes the existence of a goblin? It is their numbers all fear.

Come a month and less, they will align themselves into a troop and burrow deep into all the nooks and crannies a human will overlook. Never is there a safe place in the wilds. They will be in the tunnels. They will be in the caves. They will be in the hollows of great dead trees. And if they could, and they can, they will be in the villages slaughtering all they may. One goblin is all it takes. Three to make a troop and then that troop swells into fifty and then they hunger themselves into a ceaseless horde. Hell-raised locusts upon the grain that is man.

Yet Hollista the Heretic has a problem. She is running out of goblins.

Hollista hurries. She hoists high her staff and wills herself on, the last of her men hot on her heels. Err, minions. Minions! Spirits, she's done it again. Nothing good can come from confusing men and monsters. Men and goblins. Goblins, oh glory! The worm-eaten dead can attest to that. Yet fondness persists. Could these lowly creatures come to care for her? Goodness. Tempting blasphemy is she? These minions of hers don't deserve such consideration. Nameless. Aimless. Worthless. They're monsters. Creatures of the Unprayed. Fiends spawned from a hellish beyond. And she won't be fool-

Snaggleoak whimpers and the ex-cleric slows her pace, thinking of his ankle.

Excuses rattle her skull. Names mean nothing. They're purely for practical purposes. Rollcall! Tactics! Training! Disposable allies might be fine and dandy for a dim-headed demon. Useless lumps of meat to be lobbed at human walls. But her men need to be more of the dependable sort. Dare she utter it? Heed it! Competent. They need to be competent! Capable of comprehending simple orders and displaying basic battle prowess. Qualities you'd be hard met to find in a garden-variety goblin. This does comes with drawbacks. She must train every goblin in her personal employ. With their inevitable death to a blade or a trap or a adventurer, each loss hurts.

Err, her fighting power that is!

Hollista chants a prayer for light and her god grants it, lighting the way. Blessed be! Magic cuts a path through the swaying dark. Footsteps rage across the muddy black. They flee from tunnel to tunnel, Kirkhill Abbey unkind to those that won't respect its ancient stone. Walls crumble. Earth gives. Beasts that huddle in this abandoned ruin throw themselves onto the goblins' blades. Fools. Hollista carries on.

She needn't be quiet, clever. Not an ounce of respect to be shed in this worthless place.

The lair is lost! And if Kirkhill Abbey cannot comprehend that, she will not lighten her steps. Arrow upon arrow. Blade upon blade. All around, death sings. Adventurers swarm the clusters of armed goblins duty-bound to hold their positions. They who fill the ranks of her her outlying guard. Ah, correction. Spell-bound to hold their place. Goblins would never willingly lay down their lives for a human.

That's the trouble in training them.

You see, the goblins already have it in their minds three strikes against her. She's human. She's woman. She's living. That and perhaps even less is all they need to see her slain. Demonic seals carved into their skin brings them into her order. Defy her? Die. But that does not stop the cowardly and clever among them. She and her guard breach the wider halls. And she spies treachery yet again.

Hollista claims the corner, assessing the situation. Fools! They've given up?!

A trio of goblins throw down their swords. Better beasts would've kept those blades with pride! Scouts in shape and form, they flee in random directions. Cowards! The adventurers have yet to reach this floor of the underground. Hold the line, you worthless wretches! It matters not. Treachery rewards its own. Tattoos vine itself around their deceitful necks and then it's over. Abruptly. Heads part from their necks and out do the screams roll. Why, what a marvelous chorus! Hollista admires her work. Guttural scream carry cross the rounded walls and just like that, these cowards renew the efforts of the living. Fight well, men!

Err, minions. She has not forgotten.

Hollista leads her men further into the lower floors. This part of Kirkhill Abbey won't be on a single map those adventurers might be sporting. She should know. Church rumors does not easily fall into ears of the common people. And especially not these faithless men and women armed with cheap blades and even cheaper morals. Here the tunnels shrink. Narrowing into needles as unkind they are to the shoulders. Made to be marched in single line. Maze-like, there is little hope in keeping a group together. A unfortunate discovery. But very well, she'll make do. Hollista directs her hobgoblins to stand guard at each threshold they pass. Deterrents if you will. Surrendering six good men as she hurries, adventurers and their metal shoes echoing ever and ever near.

Soon enough, they reach what she's been looking for. My oh my, a shrine of the Unprayed Ones.

The tunnels open into a wide chamber-like room. Blessed be, it has a vault door. Hollista orders her men to secure it. There is little time to be daunted by the human remains that litter the place. Demons are fond of their brand of religious mockery. Here they have nestled deep in the consecrated earth a dark altar to their gods, sparing little expenses nor human lives for its construction. And crueler still, the clergy knew about it. Yes. The church will never admit of a time when they, yes they, had a arrangement with the demons.

What is good without evil?

On record, this is a ossuary.

An easy excuse for the dead carted to this place.

But what else is a ossuary this grand and secret for but a dinning room for the damned?

Skull and stripped skin drape the rounded chalk-white walls. Hollista wrinkles her nose. Despite the draft of the tunnels behind her, the stale stench of human flesh clings to every inch of this gruesome space. Her goblins whiff at the ribcage displays. One of them every has the nerve to let his belly rumble in her presence. Hollista presses on, not to be discouraged. Just about every brick and stone a petrified and chiseled bit from something that used to have a pulse. Hollista studies the larger skulls hanging from the ceiling, a macabre chandelier horned and hung with severed claws. Why so many monsters skulls?

Hollista hurries to the altar. Strangely enough, it does not sit in the center of the room.

Rounded much like the walls, the altar is surrounded by a tray of monster remains. Mainly their skulls. Hollista rifles through them. Goblin. Imp. Chimera. Greater Spider. Greater Snake. Fey-Beast. There's more but Hollista's interest wanes and her eyes return to the center of the chamber. She peers at the floor she passed. Aha! That must be a summoning rune carved into the rock. Which means! Hollista lifts up a skull, gloriously giddy. This must be a summoning shrine! One that demons used to replenish their numbers! Heavens know she doesn't know how it works but perhaps she can trick it into working for her.

Hollista studies the skulls. In demonic script, they sport numbers chiseled into the bone.

They aren't hard to translate. Goblin is one. Imp is one. Chimera is three. Yet the longer she studies them, the stranger the numbers become. Why is Chimera thirty? And Fey-Beast, a hundred? There are duplicates too. A gravel-made golem head is five. But a bedrock-made golem head is ten. The only difference between them is the building material. What could these numbers mean? Frowning, Hollista reluctantly takes the goblin skull. It's a low number and she's familiar enough with goblins, frontier ones at least, to try and summon it first. It's disappointing, she'll admit.

There are orc skulls and ogre skulls too. She doesn't plan to stick with goblins. They are simply a low-effort means to an end.

Hollista affixes it to the top of the altar, adjusting it as so. The skull glows so the altar's magic must still be active.

She marches back to the center of the chamber. Now how does she start the summoning? She hopes there isn't a magic word or chant she's expected to know. Church rumors or not, she'd hardly thought a shrine like this would be this easy to find. Why haven't the heretics secured this place? Hollista scoffs loudly. Oh, they probably think they have since they've dispatched her to the area. Terrible that. Once she's done away with the infestation of adventurers then perhaps she'll claim this as her own-

Pain swells.

Hollista wheezes. Something jams up into her lungs. Her eyes flit down and she spies a knife jutted into her belly. Marvelous. The owner of the knife cackles. Today is certainly a charmed day for cowards and clever killers. "Leafgrin, is this really the time?" she scolds with a defeated smile. "You could've done this at anytime. Anytime but now. I can't let this go. You understand right? Think of the example it'd be."

Her hand finds its way to his leathery skull. Goblins tend to be mostly bald. Human meat is not a diet.

She pats it. Leafgrin tightens his grip on the knife, pulling it out and stabbing her again. Hollista lets him have it. He's earned it. "Leafgrin," she murmurs. The blade pushes into the folds of her clergy garb. "Oh, Leafgrin." The sharp edge slicing neat little rips through the middle. "I liked you, you know. You knew how to work a lock. I didn't know you were this unsatisfied with my leadership. We could've come to agreement. Better meat. Better armor. More goblins under your leadership. But this? This can't go on."

With her free hand, she takes hold his and ushers the knife deeper in.

Hollista's fingers slide to his chin and she tilts it up, appraising him. How hard is it to comprehend the new order? Her order? Her gracious and merciful and divine order? Defy her? Die. Hurt her? Die. She is the earth which upon these worms flourish but yet and still, they'll think to kill her at her weakest. Don't they know that goblins will never amount to anything? Spell-assisted, the knife wounds transfer to Leafgrin. My, that glorious grin of his has become a blood-filled gurgle. His lips fall open. Drools. Hollista idly wipes the stain away. Leafgrin struggles in her hold as if she is the one piercing his organs.

Nonsense. He came to her with a complaint and she's solved it. Shouldn't he be happy to be dismissed by her personally?

Their hands intertwined, Hollista wills the knife to go deeper and deeper. "You know," she whispers, her voice husky and giddy and tipsy, "-you're the one being unfair here. I'm in the middle of something very important and you decided that your fear is more important than our freedom, our victory. Think of your brothers giving their lives for these few scants seconds and you've gone wasted it on yourself. And for what? Who will remember you? Who will embrace what you've done? Not the adventurer who took your life. Not the goblin who fought well at your side?"

Leafgrin weakens. The skin round his midsection fills with blood. He's ripe to pop.

"And certainly, it will not be I. May this kindness keep you warm in hell."

Hollista stares and stares and stares. The goblin has earned this right as well. His death to be carried. Fiend or not. Priestesses protect the living. Clerics collect the dead. That is the law of life. Soon enough, it becomes apparent she's holding onto a corpse no matter how warm it might still seem. She release its chin and down it tumbles. Hollista kneels down. Her hands search the cooling body. A trinket brushes against her knuckles. Aha! It'll do well. Hollista dresses the body. Brings her hands together in prayer. All creatures deserve a sending under heaven. She's still equipped to do so, heretic or not.

Arrows sail through the air. Fernflea falls. Then two more after them. "Find the threat and kill them!"

Hollista leaps to her heels, dodging the fourth arrow. It matters not. It's aimed for Oaktooth who stumbles back, the arrow shaft jammed into his eye socket. Hollista falters back. "Hurry you, fools!" Her eyes rush to the arrow now nesting inside of Fernflea's throat. Black-tipped and stinking of poison so thickly she can smell it despite being a distance away. She knows these arrows. Her eyes widen. No! Why must this madness follow her no matter where she goes?! Suspicions multiply like maggots in the grave. Who has done this? The clergy? The sect of heretics who've loathed her rise in their circles? The kingdom itself?

No mere man could be capable of this.

Hollista dismisses the last of her goblin guard. "May the Earth Mother grant you glory." Their loss means little. It must. They're minions! There is always more goblins. Surely. Hollista clutches the prize she's sought from ruin to ruin. It is what the Chalice Order feared she'd find. A verse of the Unprayed Ones. It is said that there are a hundred and eight unholy hymns, and once recited, the world shall end.

Nonsense.

It hadn't ended the last time it was uttered. The hymns merely led to the first arrival of the demon king and his plague of monsters. Clearly if it is spoken once more, all will be banished. A door that opens is a door that closes. And even if it isn't that simple, using it is far better than squirreling it away in a church ruin til a demon or a devil gets wind of it and steals it back.

But what's more important is that threat in the tunnels. Those arrows must mean..! T-That creature!

It's that c-creature is it not? It must be in these tunnels same as those loathsome adventurers, taking advantage of the chaos. Why the adventurers have not drawn their swords onto this foe, she'll never know. She knows not its name. Merely the corpses it leaves in its wake. Something is stalking the goblins. Something is hunting the goblins. Why? They are the size of children and are hardly any meatier than a carcass on the roadside. From lair to lair, this creature greets with omens. Her scouts fail to report. Her hobgoblins don't return. Her gobshamans flee, knowing full well if they leave her side, their reward is sudden death.

She cannot even return to the old lairs. They've been tampered with. Blackened into ash.

Hollista dares not think dragon. But dragon she does think. What if one of her bound dragons toyed with a drake and now full grown, it conspires to burn them all. But surely she'd notice a towering beast clad in scales and malice. And this isn't even her original set. Culled again and again by that creature, she's had to replenish her troop by catching wandering goblins.

There should be little to distinguish them from any other frontier goblin!

Hollista searches her soul. It might be time to use... that. Yes, that. Hollista swings the satchel to her front and out it comes, a unholy relic. The Unspoken Verse. Rightfully, she shudders. It is a prayerbook of the damned. A crown of chaos. They say that 36 Unspoken Verses was what first summoned the Demon King over a thousand year ago. But three verses alone can create a Unprayer's Hymn and on her person right now, she has that number.

Why not test that claim? Well, these books are not hers to use. She is to merely deliver them to the-

Orders be damned!

She is down to three goblins and little reason as to why she should be in a villain lair in the middle of the night.

Hollista fishes out the tome-like verses and hold them up to behold. With this and the altar, she'll summon an army of monsters! Who'd be fool not to use them! Two tomes in one arm and the third held with her hand. They're disgusting things. The covers... flickers. Nonsense, she knows. Books can't just change their covers on a dime but these ones does. They tempts her. First, it's a simple leather journal. Then a child's picturebook. Then a thin important-looking folder with her name labelled on the top. Parlor tricks! How low will it go to tempt her?! But more than that, it's the sensation. The incomprehensible texture under her fingers. This smoothness. This slickness. Her nails skid no matter the disguise it conjurers over itself.

Regardless, she steels herself. This will not be her hour of end! Here and now, she will invoke their power!

"Grant me not goblins but a monster faithful and true.”

Her soul sings.

“Then with it, grant me two. Then with them, grant me four. I ask for a multitude of beasts each grand and great and loyal to me like no other. For there will be no other! Bring about my dominion over this wretched land and with my conquest, I'll end the thousand-year war. You crave death, do you not, Altar? Wouldn't you just once wish to dine upon the Demon King's life!"

Hollista lays the verses onto the earth, and in a moment of hesitation, kneels herself.

She averts her eyes. This is nothing like bending the knee to the Unprayed Ones! It's not! She's stealing their power! She's using it for good! If the Demon King came from such wickedness, then it stands to reason that he can be sent back through them!

Why couldn't the church understand that? Such thoughts should not be punished nor denied!

“All else failed. All else... failed! Why must we rely on otherworldly heroes to-”

Hollista clasps her hands together. Weakly, she utters a prayer of power and protection. Her magic takes to the air. Divine light beats away the earthly darkness and everything glimmers, everything shines. Hollista breathes. She concentrates and that brilliant power is directed to the verses. They fill with power. They fill with lies. Quickly, they come with their promises. Offer them a life and she'll have a throne. Offer them a soul and she'll have riches beyond earth. Offer them humanity and she'll have power beyond the heavens themselves. Fill them. Feed them. Fatten them with sinners. Give them the weak and worthless.

The ex-cleric willfully deafens herself.

"I ask for your verse."

Hellfire licks at the walls.

"I ask for your verse."

Hellfire licks at the shelves.

"I ask for your verse."

Hellfire licks at her robes.

Unbent! Her will is unbent! Hollista clasps her hands tighter. It cannot kill her. It cannot eat her. She is the Earth Goddess' chosen, the heretic that shall herald the end of the Demon King! Her skin blisters, boils. Her magic frenzies. It clings to her, healing her scarring skin. It's not enough. Hellfire surges. Black flames erupt around her. Please no! Her work is yet to be done! The fire engulfs her whole form.

And then, there is nothing but light.

Hell-light.


	2. the Girl and the Written Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hollista successfully summons a goblin. Too bad, it's herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I'm also posting on Questionable Questing. This version will probably be the one to get cleaner chapters and final drafts. But if you wanna throw me comments and ideas, I'll be over there for the most part.

Hollista the Heretic has lost her sanity. And no, that is not a metaphor.

> (Deceased) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [Race]: Human  
>  [Level]: 0  
>  [HP]: 0/0  
>  [MP]: 0/0  
>  [Class]: Arch-Cleric  
>  [Class Skills]: Celestial Strike. Holy Fire. Vanquish Dead. Heavenfyre.  
>  [Specialties]: Rally III. Regroup III. Faith IV. Saint's Sight.

Incomprehensible words float before her.

It... _is_ an accurate assessment of her skills. But how it's been arranged makes little sense. What is [HP]? What is [MP]? And why, mercy willing, is she out of both of them? Logically, the less of something directly correlates with the worse of something. They're clearly abbreviations. Hollista frowns. Perhaps she should be happy with these zeros. [HP] could stand for [Hell Points]. Similarly, [MP] for [Malice Points]. But more worrisome is that thing listed next to her name.

There's no getting around it. She's dead. Apparently. And she doesn't know why.

Hollista mulls it over. Well, that does explain the void she's currently camped in. You'd think the afterlife would be rightfully dark and dreary. Sinners served their eternal reward. Or bright and brilliant, light everywhere. Saints to usher her up into the heavens. But it's neither. And honestly, it's a disappointment. The void is blue and vast. Mundane with its madness. Not a single horizon or star dots this unsettling sky. Spirits help her. She can't quite catch the right shade of blue. When her eyes fall away, darkness creeps quickly to drape the undrapeable. When she looks again, it flees.

Reluctantly, she looks back at the strange words. Perhaps- Oh, they've changed.

> [Current character is DECEASED]  
>  [Create new character]:  
>  [Y/N?]

Still adamant about her state, is it?

She would like to argue down it to a bout of [Unconscious] or [Hallucination] but there's little sense in arguing with a... textbox? Hollista freezes. Her thoughts... they've become strange. She meant to think a bout of unconsciousness. Not [Unconscious]. And these words, they're not from her language or any foreign dialect she's overheard from her travels. They are without pronunciation. Like glyphs, they gleam and usher themselves into form, into presence. Hollista tips her head back. None of this makes sense.

Even so, the void has asked a question. She'd be a fool not to take it and use it to her advantage.

"If it will make you remove that marker from my name, then yes. Do so." 

> [Sin has shaped your death. Sin has shaped your life. What virtue shall turn to vice?]  
>  [Envoy of Pride: LOCKED]  
>  [Envoy of Envy: LOCKED]  
>  [Envoy of Greed: UNLOCKED]  
>  [Envoy of Gluttony: LOCKED]  
>  [Envoy of Lust: LOCKED]  
>  [Envoy of Wraith: LOCKED]

Hollista recoils.

"How dare you! I've done none of these charges. My faith is ever-fixed, ever-true. You could never understand an ounce what I've done or what I will do! How do I know you haven't just swiped me from the abbey? This whole place a trick of a demon! It is, isn't it? Begone, you wretch! I will not stand for-"

> [Keyword: How do I know...-?]  
>  [Translating Request]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translated Request: How does [Envoy Selection] calculate attributes?]

"I did not misspeak. You're the one who's wrong. Now release me, you foul-souled-"

> (Sin Attributes) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Abuse of Authority]: 42/42  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Thievery]: 60/60  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Murder]: 7/7  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Murder of Kin]: 10/12  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Fornication]: 7/7  
>  [(Ill-Willed) Impersonation of Authority]: 40/40

And there it is.

"Y-You know about that? How?! I-I'd... I've been careful. C-Careful, you coward!"

All her sins on display. My, it's almost miserable with how mundane it is. Not a single word softened.

These words do not float alone. No, this dreadful place just had to go the extra mile if only to rub it in. Look upon the weak human. Look upon the feeble soul who dares deny what she has done. Before her, snippets of her actions play out against a fog-like backdrop. Memories somehow stolen straight out her head. There she is. Oh god, there she is. Multiples of herself stabbing and stealing and threatening and fucking her way to the top. And where has it gotten her? Here. Here in hell.

Hollista clenches her fists. No! She will not be cowed. So what if she has done those things? God knew!

> [Tutorial: Sin Attributes]  
>  [Sins are calculated upon the death of a character. [Intent] determines the weight of each sinful action. Humans who bear a certain amount of sins are barred from human reincarnation. They are to serve their sentence in the form of a [Envoy]. A [Envoy] is a monster aligned with a certain sin. They vary in shape and form.]

"But I-I... I was chosen. You can't just blindly number my sins nor my intent and-"

> [Calculating Final Sin]  
>  [Calculating]  
>  [Calculating]  
>  [Calculating]  
>  [Final Sin: Greed]

"I wasn't greedy! Where do you get off on saying that to me! Answer me! How do I qualify for greed!"

> [Keyword: "How do I qualify for greed?"]  
>  [Translating Request]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translated Request: How does one qualify for [Envoy of Greed]?]

"Well?!"

[Tutorial: Envoy Selection]  
[Virtue cannot exist without vice. Vice cannot exist without virtue. To that end, envoys are necessary. Upon the death of a sinful human, sins they've committed during their lifetime shape their next form. Many former humans will find themselves reborn as monsters. Praying upon man and monster alike. On the degree of their sins, they may find themselves born carrying various attributes. Such is the [Envoy] attribute.]

"You're already told me that. Kinda. I want know why you think I'm greedy."

> [Tutorial: Envoy Selection Continued]  
>  [Envoys are called forth during chaotic warring periods. Widespread ruin and death is necessary. Thus a sign of mankind of having lost its way. Sin concentrated in an area along with other cosmic factors, will spawn a [Envoy]. Envoys are monsters born of a higher quality than their typical kin. If allowed to fester and root themselves into the fabric of the world, they will, in time, bring forth great calamities.]

"What are you saying?"

Hollista sputters.

"That not only am I damned but I'll end up destroying the land! This isn’t what I wanted!"

It can’t be true.

"I was acting in the faith of my goddess! And if this is the afterlife, then where is she? I want to speak to her. I want her to tell me that I am dead and damned! I am allowed that right. Where is the Earth Goddess? You cannot just label me and justify it on those so-called sins. I've done just as much good as I've have done bad. A-And-" her voice hitches, "-it's only been six months! I can't have fallen so far to deserve this! I couldn't have! Please! Bring the goddess or end this trick. I demand, no, I deserve-"

> [Searching for Spawn Point]  
>  [Searching]  
>  [Searching]  
>  [Searching]  
>  [Spawn Point Found]

"Stop! I demand you stop. I will not go along with this!"

> [Registering Spawn Point]  
>  [Registering]  
>  [Registering]  
>  [Registering]  
>  [Registration Complete] 

…

> (Envoy of Greed) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [Level]: 1  
>  [HP]: 5/5  
>  [MP]: 1/1  
>  [Race]: Grass Goblin  
>  [Race Traits]: Scent Sight I. Night Sight III. Fleet Foot. Iron Claws. Iron Belly.

"What!"

 _Goblin_.

Did it declare her a _goblin_?

That cannot be right. That mustn't be right. It's an error. A smudge on the textbox. Clearly. Clearly! Why, oh why, would she be flung into a goblin! It's not fair. It's not right. She hadn't been greedy in the slightest. She'd take the life of a miserable mutt over a goblin! Goblins never amount to anything. They're nothing but thieves and cowards and rapists. Even the minions she'd whipped into a fighting force would immediately return to their vile ways the moment she lax her control.

"You've made a mistake. Please!" Surely, she could earn her penitence by doing something else!

> [Spawn Point: Kirkhill Abbey]  
>  [Info]: A heretic herald is in need.  
>  [Info]: Offering up her own life for the sake of her ambition, she has brought you into the world. She favors monsters. You are now [Goblin]. She favors faith. You are now [Omen]. She favors truth. You are now [False Tongue]. She favors numbers. You are now [Coin-Crazed]. She favors multitudes. You are now [Pack Bitch]. She favors no other. You are now [Herd Beast]. She favors...

"Stop!"

Light fills the space. Hollista throws up her hands, shielding herself from the unholy radiance.

"I will not end up a-"

"-goblin."

 

* * *

 

Dusk. The dizzying hour greets a figure drowning in white. White robes to be exact. Had it not been for the neat stitching, she'd confuse them with sheets. Loose. Light. Free-flowing round her... everything. Even the naughty bits. Hollista squints. Squirms. Why is she on the ground? This doesn't-? These can't be her robes. Why are they so big? So baggy? They certainly hadn't been tailored to this degree of madness when she donned them... earlier? Hollista blinks slow.

When is earlier? Scratch that. What is earlier?

Hollista stills. Earlier could be a thousand things. Blackmail. Bribery. Murder. The typical tactics of a lawless heretic. Nothing remarkable comes to mind. Perhaps, she's simply hit her head and fallen. But if so, why can't she remember the act of the fall? Surely there are clues about. Hollista examines the fabric. These robes are familiar. They're stolen, for one. Convent whites of a traveling abbess. Is she undercover somewhere? That's odd. She'd never do a church heist.

Named heretics such as herself avoid institutions of that nature for a reason.

Hollista won't lie. She'd don the garb of a meek nun or a young priestess for the sake of earning funds for her cause. There's no shame in it. But she'd never go so far and steal the high robes of an abbess. They have enough clout to call a squad of templars down on Hollista's head once her location is made known. Had she gone mad? There's not a single ploy in the world that would need these robes.

Footsteps cut across the silence. Lucky for her, they echo from upward.

That implies she's underground. A floor or so under the many threats striding the stone. Men? Women? A good portion of them are wearing metal-lined boots. Steel heels with a loud clink. Didn't change shoes for this expedition? Professionals? Amateurs? She charts out their path. It's one of peril. Beasts strike at the group at every turn. Hollista frowns. These people aren't hesitating. They're... hurrying?

To hurry means they are familiar with the location?

But they're not.

Her ears twitch ever so.

Keenly, they catch the unorganized march. Ten fools slaying anything that jumps into their path. Unwittingly, they've rile up the other monsters and as such, the numbers pour in. Hmmm. Those threats are certainly strong but the people above are acting as if they are wasting time. She hears footsteps stutter, stumble. Doors are opened. Doors are closed. She hears the pause in their motions. Perhaps, a lantern being lit or a map being consulted. They aren't familiar with this place nor do they seek the monsters. And yet, they are hurrying. Hurrying deeper and deeper into the surfacing dark. What if...

What if these threats are here for her?

Nonsense.

Named or not, there's no way in heaven they know of Hollista the Heretic.

The Chalice Church keeps the public quiet on its internal affairs. Both a strength and a weakness. Heaven forbid, there be anything like a careless thought. Heretics are to keep like skittering roaches under church pews if they want to keep their lives. To announce yourself as a heretic is to offer yourself up to the plethora of templars and assassins and maidens of mercy they'd send your way.

For the church, there is no such thing as a heretic. Living ones, you see.

There are, however, dead heretics. Decapitated heretics. Burned at the stake heretics. You name em', they've done em'. To be a named heretic, you must be a walking blasphemy. You see, there are heretics that simply utter their ideals. The spineless whiners if you will. Those are the ones put into seclusion and forced to publicly repent for their delusion. And then, there are the ones that commit to their ideals. The named.

For you see, the saint's favor has not left them. They still cast miracles, purify the waters, sway hearts.

They must be named in order to limit their influence. To deny them followers. Still, she should be cautious. Hollista idly dresses herself. Surely, she can fashion these robes into something useful. Huh. Where are they? The modesty wrappings bundled round her breasts. They must've loosened again. She searches the billowy cloth. Fingers catching onto fabric, fabric, fabric. That's...? Strange. Yup, that is strange. By now, her knuckles should've careened into the pair of rolling hills she calls hers. Mounds too fertile and full to ever be called meek.

And these fingers? They're longer. Heavier. Pointed and jagged at the nails.

Hollista takes them into her palms and examines each one. This has to be a dream. She sets off a count. Five fingers on each hand and a single hand on each wrist. Nothing should be different. But it is. They feel like fingers. Just thinner. Stranger. The nails themselves made out of some thicker material. They're hook-like, curved to a sharp edge. Correction. A sharpening edge. They lengthen and recede if her attention lingers on them too. Dulling to that of smoothed stone.

And if this is just her hands, what happened to the rest of her body?

Her fingers reach upward and these nails, these claws, slice open the cloth above. Hollista frowns. Great. Another thing she doesn't recognize. How hard did she hit her head? Her eyes flitter from wall to wall. This looks to be a vault of sorts. Old stone holds up a wide space filled bookcases and shelves and rusting relics. This must've been a church at some point. Church-owned at least. A abbey, perhaps? Sweetly, the stench of rosemary clings to the stale air. Myrrh toys with her nose. Then too comes the scent of old human flesh. Bones litter the gloomy space. Plenty of them human-sized and human-shaped.

She eyes the curved corners of the chamber.

Her eyes don't deceive her. Every other brick has been inscribed with a holy sigil. Likely carved from consecrated stone to give it that extra oof. Mind you, this isn't something she sees with her actual eyes. It's the second sight. Saint's Sight. As a arch-cleric, she could probably apply holy sigils herself and bind them together, creating a paling of protection. And that's what used to be here. Something that looks like an altar lines the back wall. The bones used to built it dyed or blackened into a obsidian-black. Hmmm, it's looks far too demonic for it to be a coincidence. Could this be some sort of demon altar? Interesting.

That settles it. She's here to steal something. But what?

Hollista wills herself to her feet, lazily trying to will herself to remember, and her eyes fall on herself. Her inhuman self. Green upon green upon green. That is what she is. A green pint-sized thing. Hollista shouts, stumbling onto her way to draw back. But there is nowhere to draw back. This green creature follows her, mocks her every motion. Its voice echoes throughout the vault. "Get away from me, you damnable-"

The ex-cleric loses her footing.

"Gah!"

She tumbles into a mess of limbs. Pain knocks her from one world to the next. And when her eyes open, she is still here. Still on the floor in a bone-filled pit. Idly, she reaches out with her magic. Where are her men? Her minions? Not a single seal responds to her call. They must be dead or worse, planning an attack against her. Fine. Let them have their freedom. Hollista renounces her seal-bond and what few goblins that still claim life are now free to flee where they may. She is feeling terribly charitable today.

At the hour of her end, Hollista thinks of little.

You must understand. Tears and terror will not save her life. And isn't it glorious! Not an ounce of good will nor blackmail will nudge the scales of fate! She is doomed! Damned! Left to face the very same blades she'd once held herself! Numbers are what win the game. It's all too obvious now! Too few clergymen willing to vouch on her behalf? Heretic. Too few allies on the stand? Villain. Too few minions to defend the walls? Slain. Marvelous, isn't it? This last stand she didn't foresee. And to think! What led these adventurers to her doors? Why, the rolling zeroes on her bounty of course!

If only she could see the numbers that govern fate. Surely then, she could change it.

> [Keyword: "-see the numbers..."]  
>  [Translating Request]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translated Request: How to use Status and Menu functions?]

Hollista startles into motion. Who? What? Where? Why are there words before her!?

> [Tutorial: Status]  
>  [Upon using the word, [Status], a player character may view their current character sheet. This sheet contains information of their health, magic reserves, learned skills, current class and unique specialties that will act as passive buffs for the character. When [Status] is used, menu functions become available.]

"And what is this [Menu]?" she inquires before freezing. Why had the word come out as [Menu]?

> [Tutorial: Menu]  
>  [Once [Status] is spoken, a player character can employ the [Menu] to adjust and alter their character build. One may change the title, class, and specialties once they've acquired a sizable amount. As the player character grows in both levels and experience, more functions may become available.]

Huh. Hollista takes a breath and utters, "[Status]."


	3. the Girl and the Forgotten Sin (SEX)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hollista goes through the five stages of grief but fails to get pass denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains (fetish-wise): Fingering. Mating Cycles/In Heat. Pheromones. Excessive Fluids. Hentai Logic.

Hollista stares at the words before her. 

> (Envoy of Greed) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [Info]: A grass goblin granted the gift of [Greed].  
>  [Curses]: [Omen]. [False Tongue]. [Coin-Crazed]. [Pack Bitch]. [Herd Beast].

Curse? Err uh, curses? That must be a misprint. 

Numbers scroll into her mind. Ah. They make... no sense. None at all. And it's funny. It feels as if she's seen this before. Curious. Rightly, she should be mad about being labelled a envoy of greed or whatever nonsense it is but the familiarity is enough to curb her anger. At least for now. Hollista flops back onto the ground. Numbers aside, she is still going to die. The adventurers or murderers or monsters will storm in and not a single number shall save her. Especially ones like these. They're in the single digits! Ludicrous.

And more than that, why is she a goblin?

Couldn't she be allowed a more dignified form to die in?

Her hands touch her belly and up they rise, mapping out more and more of this startling form. Fuzz tickles her trembling fingertips. Softness silvery to her quaking skin. Moss? Webbing from a wayward spider? She scratches. Picks. The fuzz won't come off. Excuses roll in her head. It's a shawl. It's a scarf. It's a cloak. The thin hairs go rigid under her touch. The way they nestle together, tightening their ranks and hiding the skin underneath, it's almost fur-like. You know. Aside from the garish green that drapes her from head to toe.

Hollista hesitates.

It is fur-like. A light dusting of green fur coats her belly and sides and now that she's looking for it, it's obvious it's everywhere else too. It's not dense fur. She isn't as hairy as a dog or cat or, thank mercies, a bear. But it's far more hair than a human would have. The fur doesn't coil like long human hairs ought do. It's bristly in places. Softer in others. And more than that, it doesn't seem randomly grown like human hairs are. The bristle fur covers all her outer joints. The shoulders. The knees. Parts of her palms. Could it be defensive in nature? But the soft fur, the silky feather-fluff sort, coats the rest. Insulation? That implies a colder climate. Or perhaps more fur is necessary for underground creatures?

But that can't be right. Fur like this implies she's an animal of sorts. Kindly put, beast-adjacent.

Her hands stride higher. Gently, they bump into two soft swells. Hollista gasps. Her fingers are downright frosty compared to these new breasts of hers. They're warm. Tender to the touch. She cups them. They're far, far smaller than her former ones. On a human girl, they'd certainly be considered about a finger away from a handful. She's sure of it. But on this form, they're ripe. Rich. Her bust near immodest in this alter-form. Curving slopes jiggle and sway under her nervous prodding. Goodness. They're firm.

Lewd at they are, they surpass the respectable word known as breasts. Simply put, they're titties.

Hollista snorts. She, out of anyone, should know better than to simply label a woman's bust as either wholesome breasts or whorish titties. But she isn't a woman, is she? Hollista cups them. Big as they are, they nearly give her shovel-like hands a run for their money. They're fuzzy too. Fuzzy near all the way to the ring of lighter flesh that sits on each breast. That bit of skin is only skin. And heavens, it's sensitive too. She circles the tensing skin. My, it's pale green. Almost the shade of absinthe. The drink of the dead. But that's cruel to say. It's still a lovely color. She can be kinder. A vine of green grapes out in the summer sun. Hmm. Will she see the sun again?

Her fingers find the slits her nipples have hidden themselves in. Inverted ones, are they?

Hollista doesn't bother with trying to will them out. She toys with the rest of her breasts. Groping. Squeezing. Demanding more and more. Her lips part. Hand round her breast, she fondles it til her hips wag in want. Hollista snorts again. Is this really the time to indulge in herself. Her hands continue on. Her free hand descends down her trim belly and scrambles down the land of thighs. There in the trembling valley, wetness gathers. Her fingers inch low. Slowly, steadily, her thighs open and down does the rest of her hand goes. A fingertip claims the womanly swell. Then another. Then another.

Womanly swell?

Well, there isn't a nun around to tsk her about her language.

Pussy, she means.

One green giddy pussy all hers to train.

> [Coitus Carnage]

What?

Hollista ignores the little textbox. It can't be that important. How more cursed could she be?

Her fingers wiggle into the juicy lips. Two ease the sides open and another finds her clit, greeting it with eager brisk. Ah. Her hips cant up. Ah! Hollista lets her head fall to the side. Pleasure mounts. Her eyes flutter close. Enjoy the moment. Be the moment. What else does she have to look forward to? A knife in the belly? A spell to the skin? A snap of the neck? Gruesome and more, it does nothing to cool her libido. Aimless. Her heels grind into the stony earth. Nameless. Her moans take to the air. Worthless. Her thoughts go nowhere but here. But now. Her pussy growing more and more slick and swollen.

Pleasure swells.

Hollista comes with a little squeeze, a little clench of all she is and all she won't be. Oh, the finality of it. Her hopes and dreams dissolving for the sake of an orgasm. Then another. Then another. At the end, she's only a little starry-eyed when she puts two thoughts together and thinks, well, she doesn't have to die here. Lost her form. Lost her men. But she hasn't lost her wits and that's what is important. She can still have it all. And think about it, being a goblin is a godsend. It'll be easier to recruit them. Train them.

The ex-human catches her breath.

She sits up, thinking of her next move. She should leave. Regroup. Perhaps round up her minions and teach them her new world order. A good bout of training never hurt.

Hollista laps the liquid pleasure off her fingers. Strange. She hadn't mean to do that. Heat coils low her belly. She's feeling... strange. Feverish. Hollista takes to her feet. She should- Her insides clench in need. "Oh?!" Hollista moans despite herself. Weakly, her fingers find their way back to her pussy. They stroke and knead. Buckling, her knees sink to the floor. Hollista slumps even further. Her hips push up and her chest lean low against the cool stone. Cheeks wag hello to the empty space. She moans again. Louder. Looser. Her thighs spread wider and ruts up against her hand, the slick sounds a lewd echo.

"W-Why?"

Hollista grits out a desperate syllable. She needs to- Her finger curl and she's off again, cumming wetly to no relief. What caused this? Is it a curse? Did she somehow set one of them off?! That couldn't be right. They're terrible, honest, but they seemed the sort that would influence people's behavior towards her. Certainly, not the other way around. And frankly, she'd hadn't done a thing that counted as greedy.

Pleasure sweeps her from thought to thought.

Will weakened, her hips rock and sway like a bitch in heat. More. She needs more. Her fingers circle her slit and gasping, she sinks a lucky finger in. Clarity washes in. Just like that, her body stills and the frenzied heat is smothered back into embers. Hollista frowns. Why would a bit of penetration stop it? Hollista frees her finger. Seconds pass and she still seems fine, if a little more friskier than she'd ordinarily be. This is a ossuary after all. It's not exactly a upscale bedroom with a prince on the mattress.

Hollista gathers herself and makes for the bundle of robes she woke in.

Three steps in, the heat returns. Her hips give a little urgent wiggle. It can't be-? Hollista sends her fingers back into the space into her legs and the moment she's entered, relief swells through her form.

"No."

Her memory is spotty.

"No, I won't-"

But Hollista knows herself.

"The heavens wouldn't be this cruel."

Everything she'd asked for has been twisted. Faith. Truth. Fortune. Allies. Her singular mission. And she knows she wouldn't just ask for those things. Course not. She's seized the moment! Who wouldn't want godly or magical-assistance to bring forth her greatest desire? To see humans once and for all end the thousand-year war! And imagine how sweeter it be if it was the demons who gave her the weapons of their undoing. Hollista can't quite think of how she worded it. Sovereignty? Authority? It couldn't have been bad. But clearly, it'd been badly chosen enough to be twisted into this.

What is this, you might ask?

It's obvious. Obvious! Conquest into conquered. Sovereign into slave. Dominion into DICK-FIEND!

"Curse," she weeps, "Curse! Curse everything!" Or should it be fuck, fuck everything? Clearly, the gods do not give a shit about following the spirit of the word. Everything must be literal. Everything is literal. And she is, apparently, fucked. "I can't take this anymore. Please let me wake up. Please, I'm sorry. I'm not a goblin. I'm not. I'm not! Just let me wake up now. I promise to be good. I'll stop. Really! I'll do a penitence."

Hollista totters from side to side.

Her insides demand thickness. Girth her small fingers cannot provide. Oh, to be flooded from cunt to womb. She's dripping. Drooling from her crazed slit. Cruel cravings push and pound into every inch of her body. Anything will do. Anyone will do. Even now, her inner walls hug her pumping fingers. She wants more. Needs more. Hollista drops back to the floor. This can't go on. She just needs one orgasm to get her head on straight. That'll help. It must. The gods wouldn't have done this to her without giving her a way to overcome it!

They're watching.

They know.

If this is wrong, then they'd certainly strike her down.

How could she be so blind! T-This! T-This is merely a obstacle for her overcome!

Once she orgasms the lust out, she'll be turned back to normal. Right? Right?! Right, GODS!??????

Hollista finishes herself off with another curl of her fingers. Panting, she eyes the bundle of robes. Okay, new plan. Clothes. Goblins. Escape. Now what to do about her sudden zeal for penetration? Somewhat unnerved, Hollista imagines a cock inside her. It helps. Kinda. Her thighs shake, rooting around for the imaginary length. Hollista struggles up and wobbles to her clothes. Don't thrust down. Don't-! Her hips spread and she mounts her robes, humping her white cloak and church garbs. Hollista wails.

Pinching herself for another brief bit of clarity, the ex-human cannibalizes her clothes.

She can't fit them as she is now. Short and aggressively plump in both the chest and the hips. Hollista harvests her modesty wrappings and makes a top out of them. Her breasts bulge between the silky strips. Hollista wrestles with their ends. She can't... quite make it tight enough. Oh well. As long as it doesn't outright fall apart while she walks, it'll do. Hollista rifles through the rest on the floor. The cloak would be useful if it wasn't so long. It's the same story for her outer robe and the cotton-y high collar that goes under it.

Her fingers touch smooth fabric.

Ah, yes. Her under-gown. In her proper human form, the translucent slip could only cover her thighs. They need to be worn along with stockings or high socks to preserve her modesty. Temple girls disdain garments that hide one's true self from heaven's sight. Of course, she understands the concept of everything deserving a garb but the common people can take it too far. What shame could there be in a woman's bare chest? Frankly, function is all that matters. She's donning a top purely because of a weather. Not because she is concerned of someone spying her tits. And the same goes for her bottom.

Hollista studies the slip. It might do. In the dim light, at least it isn't as see-through as it could be.

She tries it on and the under-gown near swallows her whole form. Guess she can't wear it outright. Now rumpled round her ankles, Hollista tugs up the thin straps. She pulls them and the slip up to her waist. Then makes a ribbon, tying the strap round her midsection. Hollista test the makeshift skirt. It's light. Airy. She takes a step and the long hem catches under her feet. Still too long to be useful. But she'll fix that.

Hollista grabs the hem and thinking hard, wills her nails to length into claws.

With a messy chop here and there, the under-gown becomes a mini-skirt. Err. She might have overestimated the inches she needed. Well, too late for that. Clothes acquired, Hollista digs through her things a little more. She'd like her staff of course. It couldn't have gotten far. Where is it? Hollista keeps on searching and searching. You must understand. Clerics raise their staffs from a clipping of their temple's first tree. It's a living thing. How else can it conduct miracles and magic?

She could buy a staff or wand from a vendor. But it'll never be able to cast a single potent spell.

Weak spells? Sure. Hollista imagines a terrible spell would be fine with a village-born caster or a stray mage. They wouldn't know any better. But to priestesses and clerics, it's never to be done. All they need to do is return to their temple and let the staff heal itself in the presence of the first tree. Or if it's not hurt too badly, it'll do it itself. There are times when one cannot travel back to their home temple. But honestly, any church with a free room will do. Hollista calls on her magic. Where is it? Where is her staff? Strangely, a textbox floats to the left of her sight.

It doesn't bare any words but isn't empty. Something that looks like a map is being displayed.

Hollista squints up at the little blinking dot in the center of the blue square map. This is more of that curse nonsense, isn't it? Squinting harder, her name appears. Of course! There are other things too. Items she's investigated are highlighted in white. Items she hasn't are grayed out and marked with a question mark. Hollista reluctantly glances at the ancient bits stored in this chamber. They don't look interesting. Maybe in practical terms. Burning. Ripping. Stuffing. They look so old that they'd collapse into dust if she'd breathed on them. It'd be best to leave them alone.

The map makes a soft 'ting'.

The question marks vanish and so too do the items she wasn't interested in.

Right then. "Locate staff." The map remains silent. Does it need another word? "Find staff." It's not working. Maybe her phrasing is off? “Show me Hollista Harrwell’s staff.” Hollista huffs. It doesn’t matter. This map thing is only a distraction. She'll search this chamber again once the adventurers have left the ruin. It's not safe to linger here any longer than she needs to. Hollista glances up at the vault doors. Then up. Then up some more.

Only now does she understand how short she is.

"I-?" her voice cracks, "I can't reach it!" This can't be happening. Hollista throws herself at the stone. Even on the tips of her toes, she can't reach the gaudy knockers serving as door handles. Never mind, pull down the bar that would've secured the room from intruders. This place is a death trap! Hollista tries to dig a claw through the stone. The claw in questions snaps off her fingertip. "Eh?! Eh! Fuck!"

Hollista backs away from the doors.

The heavens can't be so cruel. She's trained goblin runts before and even those pint-sized rookies still have a head over her. Hollista measures herself from head to toe. This doesn't make sense! She's proportional. Not a single underdeveloped or baby fat on her. Age-wise, she has exactly the same physical maturity she had as a human. At twenty-five, she's certainly left puberty behind.

What is she to do now?

Just wait for death like a meek little monster?

That cannot be her ending! The gods wouldn't have given her a fate she can't fight!


	4. the Girl and the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hollista scrambles for a escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, they'll be some differences between versions here and on Questionable Questing. I do plan on updating the old chapters with the cleaner ones on Thursday. If I make some serious edits, I'll let everyone in the the thread know with a comment. So far, the changes are pretty minor. 
> 
> Just a extra line here and there and some expansion of some scenes I skimmed over in the first run around.

Hollista darts from shadow to shadow.

Surely, there's a hidden door. Who'd nestle a secret altar within a secret vault without one?

Demons and their damn magic, she'll tell you what! Who needs something practical like a escape route or a trap door when one can just poof and piss themselves to wherever they wish. Her eyes scale the rounded walls. No matter where they land, the exit refuses to double. And here's the problem with that. Heretics aren't brought in alive. Lumped in with the likes of necromancers and liches, it's best to torch the earth they stand and offer up ashes and witnesses as proof of the kill. Wickedness to be roasted to the root. And that's unfair.

Hollista the Heretic is more than any mere demon-aiding, soul-selling, grave-robbing scoundrel!

But she supposes without any human credibility nor clergy enemies to beg the difference, she's no better than a doctrine-dismaying nobody. And of course, abomination. Goblins aren't humans.

The ex-human eyes what she has on hand.

There's plenty of wood in the altar chamber. Course, the human remains are even more plentiful. Bookshelves. Bookcases. Pews and the like. Huh. Hollista blinks, willing her eyes to readjust to the space. Is it just her or is everything suddenly more approachable? Hmm, that's not quite the word she's looking for. Her eyes bounce from shelf to shelf. Keenly, she sees the wear in the wood and the weakness in the nails. Approachable? Er uh, malleable? Craft-able? Harvestable? Hollista blinks. That's it! That's the word. There are things worth harvesting here. And uh? That little ah-ha moment?

Why does it have to come with yet another textbox?

> [Goblin Roles/Classes]  
>  [Info]: Goblins naturally fall into three distinctive roles within a troop. Scout. Warrior. Worker. From grub to adult, these troop-born goblins switch between these classes as necessary. Goblins without a troop, wanderers, will fall into a single role they favor on their travels. Given time, this chosen class will unlock into higher, more elite, specialization. These wanderers will grant their new role to the troop they arrive to. Thus straightening the troop as a whole and allowing new forms of goblin-based classes to appear.

That does make sense.

Do the gods want her to pick a 'goblin-role' now?

> [Goblin Scout]  
>  [Info]: Scouts are both the eyes and feet of any troop. They see first. They leave first. Scouts favor speed and darkness over anything else. Thinner and leaner than most, they can only take a single hit in combat. Thus they work well in combination with a warrior. Drawing a enemy into a ambush and relying on their allies to finish off the intruder. In return, the scout will provide information for the troop on the enemy's movement, viable dens in the area, and aide in scouting of human villages and settlements.  
>  [Class Branch]: [Third Scout]. [Second Scout]. [First Scout]. [Scout Leader].  
>  [Specialties]: [Nimble Nerves].
> 
> [Goblin Warrior]  
>  [Info]: Warriors are both the arms and legs of any troop. They attack first. They defend first. Warriors favor strength and shadows over everything else. Thick-skinned and heavier than most, they suffer festering wounds and scars from constant combat. These wounds often lead to infections which gradually eats away at their sight and reflexes. Thus they work well in combination with a scout. Waiting in ambush to take a enemy unaware, they rely on their allies to distract the intruder and allow an opening they cannot miss. In return, the warrior will provide defense for the troop, escort workers to new den sites, and aide in the pillaging of human villages and settlements.  
>  [Class Branch]: [Third Grunt]. [Second Grunt]. [First Grunt]. [Grunt Leader].  
>  [Specialties]: [Backbone Bravery].
> 
> [Goblin Worker]  
>  [Info]: Workers are both the face and heart of any troop. They build first. They destroy first. Workers favor safety and slight light over anything else. The average goblin, they do not have much in the way of combat, ambition, or speed, but make up for it by having a primal instinct to create dens and kill all not-goblin. Thus they work well in combination with both a warrior and scout. The two other roles giving up both their lives and limbs to safeguard the troop's home. In return, the worker will provide shelter for the troop, build tunnels and breeding nests, and aide in the destruction of human villages and settlements.  
>  [Class Branch]: [Third Worker]. [Second Worker]. [First Worker]. [Master Worker].  
>  [Specialties]: [Structure Scheme].

Hmmm, she's seen these behaviors play out among her goblin guard.

But to be honest, she'd never seen a worker among them. The few run-of-the-mill goblins she'd lure right out a occupied den often ended up becoming a scout or a warrior. And it's odd. None of these classes allow her to be a goblin leader. Your hobgoblins or gobshamans and so on. If these are indeed the standard roles a goblin gets to train in right off the back, then how come it account for her status within her old goblin guard? Or has it? Hollista studies herself. Her hands and shoulders aren't lined muscles like gob-warriors ought have. She'd remember the specialty given to her. [Fleetfoot]. That must mean gob-scout, right? But her feet and lower legs don't have that beastly thinness to them.

With both warrior and scout out, doesn't t-that mean...? T-That she is... a gob-worker?!

"Status!"

Information sails across the space. Aha, it doesn't say a thing about a class! She can still choose a decent goblin role. Then her eyes fall onto [Cave Critter I]. Hollista mumbles a question and the textbox happily informs her what it does. Underground? Make a room underground? D-Doesn't that sound a lot like what a worker does?! Hollista throws her face into her hands. Surely, she can switch this role!

"Worker to...?" Hollista utters out dubiously, "-to scout? Worker to scout...? Class change!"

> [Keyword: "Worker to...?"]  
>  [Translating Request]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translating]  
>  [Translated Request: What happens to a [Wanderer]'s class when integrated into a troop?]

"Wait, that's not what I ask! Switch me to scout! How else am I going to slip pass the adventurers!"

> [Tutorial: Wanderer Class]  
>  [Wanderers are the blood of any goblin troop. They bring with them new classes and specializations, allowing goblins the ability to both branch out into different roles and strengthen the ones already available. Warrior wanderers often become [Hobgoblins]. Scout wanderers often become [Gobshamans]. Worker wanderers often become [Red Caps]. But rarer goblin classes are possible.]

"Okay."

This is getting nowhere.

"I just need you to clarify one thing for me? Am I a worker?"

> (Goblin Wanderer) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [Info]: A goblin with the gift of [Greed].

"You're not helping!" She gives a long-suffering sigh and mutters out as objectively as she can, "Hollista Harrwell, [Worker], would like to class change into Hollista Harrwell, [Scout]. I understand that under the goblin class system, I probably qualify for worker due to harboring and hosting the goblins in my guard. I acknowledge it. Therefore allow me to switch into scout to secure the survival of my troop of one."

> (Goblin Worker) Hollista Harrwell  
>  [Info]: A goblin with the gift of [Greed].  
>  [Specialties]: [Troop of One]. [Structure Scheme].

"Fine! I can see the gods want me to do this all alone! Ignore the godly intervention!"

Hollista tests the nearest bookcase with a mild grip and it wobbles. Creaking. Threatening to collapse into a pile of splinters and planks. She takes a gentler approach. Hollista strokes the old wood. The outer layer flakes in her hand. Water rot worming deep between the visibly weathered streaks. Hmm. The vault doors might have discouraged the occasional treasure hunter but it didn't do a thing about the elements. Water's gotten in. Even now, the stones that line the walls weep. Weed and worse drink up its tears. You'd think there wouldn't be a green thing here. No sun for one. But a plethora of moss and vines have clustered over the east wall. Loops of vining green coil round the human skulls and rib cages upon the webbed-over display cases. The soil must be good to keep all these green things fed. Tasty too.

"Why am I thinking about dirt?" the ex-human shakes her head. "Focus, you idiot! They're coming."

Hollista goes to salvage something from the furniture. Anything carved out of bone won't budge. They're spelled. Black light flares up the moment her fingers grab onto a ledge or leg with the intent to move it. And if she keeps it there, she gets a little shock for her impudence. Fine. Keep being useless, you old wrecks. Hollista turns to the few bits of fabric thrown about the altar chamber. They're nothing grand. Merely old banners and flags of a dead and forgotten kingdom. The cloth here is moth-bitten and thinning. No use either. To be honest, she was hoping to find under a flag banner or coat of arms, there'd be a hidden lever to usher her into freedom. Secret tunnels. Secret altars. Where's the third?

Secrets do come in threes. Everyone knows that.

It's not fair. She had to clever her way into this vault. Why should these adventurers be allowed to brute force their way though? And they're doing it right now. Closer than they've been before, footsteps cram themselves into the narrower tunnels. You'd think they reconsider their approach. To march into near total blackness with walls weighing down on each shuddering shoulder. What if something dropped from above and taught them a lesson for brazen bravery. A pike for one? Perhaps a skewer that shoots out from the other end of the tunnel. There could be a mechanism for it. Pressure plates on the floor and-

Hollista grasps her forehead.

Where did that come from? She's never, and would never, draw innocent blood. Yes, an adventurer would fetch exactly the same as a crooked nail on the open market. Crude but true. They are village leftovers that couldn't buy nor talk themselves into a proper profession. The world needs less adventurers and more guards and cooks and knights and vendors. Again, it does sound cruel. But she does means it from a good place!

Everyone knows that an adventurer is a bandit-in-training.

One quest pays too little. One quest-giver too nice. One village too remote. And then, they snap.

But there's never been a reason to outright plot their demise. Never a civilian or adventurer just a hair too nosy. And there have been times when she'd been tempted to just do away with a person. The whole 'not enough goblins' problem of hers could've been handled had she just started using humans as breeding stock. But she'd never do that. Too cruel. And when she has killed a person, well... Frankly, it's always been a spur-of-the-moment sort of murder. You've served your purpose. Now die. She doesn't loathe mankind like a monster does. Hateful from birth. There ought to be a degree of distinction.

Hollista shakes the cruel thoughts off.

How on earth could she assemble a pike anyway? There isn't a sawmill in sight. She raps her knuckles against her skull. Stupid goblin brain. Up above, the ceiling trembles. It won't be long now. They need to descend a short flight of stone stairs and then they'll be at the chamber's doors. Keenly, she hears every step. Why she could even determine the type of shoes. Earlier, Hollista knew them as metal and guess they were humans because few creatures wear metal on their feet. But now she can guess the type of adventurer. Hmm. Why couldn't they be the rookie ones?

There's a fighter leading them onward. Shoes worn down. Heels make a muted squeak on stone.

Fighters are, obviously enough, close-range fighters. They love to pretty themselves up with their self-proclaimed titles. Martial Artist. Brawler. Grappler. Whatever. Most stick to fists and the more clever ones might strap a small knife to their belts if the fight goes sideways. They, however, don't wear much armor on their upper body. Slows the speed of each strike. A veteran fighter might be sporting gauntlets or those metal things they wear on their knuckles. Hmm, she's hoping there isn't one in the group. But his footsteps are notably the heaviest in the group. That implies he's sporting something heavy for attack.

Aside from the fighter, there's a pair of swordsmen. Sturdier shoes. The first line of attack and defense.

Their shoes clad quite loudly. Cheaply made. There's a gummy echo to each step they take. Sandals? It's not good to make assumptions of a person but a swordsman that doesn't value their shoes don't value their life. As a human, the sounds of shoes like doesn't wouldn't catch her attention. But as a goblin? It ripples through the tunnels. She can near pinpoint where they are above. Maddening, isn't it? To hear every hasty step and answering creak as if the group is treading loudly in a glass bowl.

Swordsmen are close-range fighters too.

They simply have a longer range and favor a even mix of defense and attack. Supposedly. Anyone with a sword will call themselves a swordsman. The word means nothing these days. She'd take a self-proclaimed sellsword over a so-called swordsman. They're often village-born, these men and women. Dreamers. She's not fond of dreamers. Makers are what make the world. If these swordsmen were really something, they'd join the army and put that talent to use. Not lie and laze about. Going from village to village until the awe and pity runs out and then go running back to their home village.

Behind the two swordsmen, a mage or a caster.

Shoes neater and more expensive than the first three. Gifted? Bought? A freshly-minted mage does leave an academy far more prepared than the average adventurer. But if they truly was ready, they'd never have been fool enough to go after a heretic. It's obvious why'd they been asked to come. Provide the fire to end her life. But a mage that could be talked into coming is a mage without a spine. They won't last long. They never do. Naive, they'll think they are supposed to protect themselves in combat. Waste a spell here. Waste a spell there. And then when the enemy swarms them, they're uh... dead.

She's seen herself in battle. Recruits too well-tempered to understand it's not them that's the problem.

Lastly, she notes the heavy knight. Second heaviest footsteps. Shoes all metal. A clink to their steps. What on earth is a heavy knight doing with this group? Shouldn't they be beyond ordinary quests such as locate and kill a heretic? How the guilds rank their quests are beyond her. Army-trained arch-cleric and all. But surely, she'd be ranked about B+ as a threat? Wait, the guild uses metals for their filing. So, it would be about copper then? Or silver? She doesn't really know. Then weakly, Hollista catches the lightest steps of all. A ranger? A archer? Whoever they are, there's two of them. She can barely catch their steps. Had it not been for the muffled conversation, she'd confuse them with the natural sounds of the ruin. Those two will be the real threats to get pass. They and the knight.

What terrible odds. If she'd still been human, she'd send a pair of hobgoblins to scatter the group.

And if even she'd been on her own, her staff and magic would've earned back a good roll. Hollista scowls. No staff. No magic. No real way of defending herself. If she'd been born a goblin, she'd strangle herself with the umbilical cord. How the common people of the frontier haven't wiped the little blights from existence, she'll never know. Oh well. Fighting them in a honest brawl would be suicide. She needs to think quickly.

What can she use?

Hollista thinks hard. Just because they know she meant to come here doesn't mean they know she's actually here. If she just hides the evidence of her presence, then...? Hollista's eyes drop to the floor. Drat. The dusty floor is littered with her footprints. Spiderwebs and more kicked carelessly to the wayside as she sought something to use. Hollista considers her pilfered robes. They'll give her away too, won't they? Hollista thinks harder. You know, why wouldn't this chamber have a hidden door?

There isn't one but how hard could it be to convince a group of hasty adventurers that there is one?

Hollista sniffs the air. Instinctively, she knows that this space is in need of repair. That is what her goblin brain is saying. Hollista lets her snout lead her forward. Err, nose. The east wall is the weakest one. Water and roots have eaten away at the foundation. Cracks laces the weeping stone. Hollista takes hold of a brick and gives it a tug. It comes loose. She can use this. Brick by brick, she hollows out a human-sized space. Under the stone, muddy dirt packed together stares back at her. Hollista eyes her claws.

She digs into the soil.

It's uh, easy. Mud and muck fling and fall over her shoulders. It's honestly hypnotizing. The dirt is so cool. So comfy. Ah. She wiggles her fingers in it. Hollista claws more and more of the dirt out of the way. Gradually, a hole begins to form and she can't help herself. The ex-human digs a hand deep and tries to fit herself inside. It's so cozy! Hollista widens the hole. A rock lodged into the earth catches her eye. What is that? Her belly rumbles. Hollista sniffles at it, baffled by the rise of hunger, and she leans towards it. Mouth opening, she dares to take a bite-

"Wait!" she sputters, "What am I doing?"

Hollista bangs her knuckles on her head. "You idiot! Men and women are coming to stick a sword through my belly and I think now is a good time to start nesting like a rat?!" Hollista scrambles out. Ignoring the allure of the soft dirt, she carves out a door-shaped gap. It doesn't go anywhere. Obviously. But it'll look enough like a secret exit if you stand far away enough. That'll be her chance.

Hollista goes to her cloak and robes.

She takes the cloak and dirties as much she can. Adventurers need an easy story. Then once soiled to her liking, she hooks it on a sharp bit of brick a few feet from the fake door. Hollista bends low and scoops up some of the wetter mud. With her hands, she makes two trails of mud and then steps on them, smearing and making footprints leading into the hole. It's not as good as she'd like. If an adventurer looks too closely, then they'll notice the lack of adult-sized boot prints among the goblin tracks.

With her robes, Hollista wipes the mud off her feet and balls it up. They'll need be hidden elsewhere.

But before that- She bows her head and asks a prayer for forgiveness. It's necessary to stain her robes. She'd be caught otherwise! But still. The Earth Goddess deserves an answer. Prayer done, Hollista hurries to locate a ambush point. The corner closest to the vault doors will do. Hollista snuffs out any lights in reach. Candles spelled to be ever-lit. The flames won't ever falter so she throws stones at the candle wicks, knocking them over and into the water. Now in mud-water, they're like little firefly lights.

Darkness is her only ally now.

Hollista fumbles forward and crouches down, claws at the ready. Agony swells up her knuckles. What! Her nails recede back into sharp little points. "Grow," she whispers, her temper quick to pop. "Turn back into claws!" As they are now, her nails would be like little tacks against a human's skin. It'll hurt. But not much. She's even more defenseless than before. How could this night get any worse?!

Footsteps end the silence.

Ah, she forgot. Adventurers. Hollista holds her breath. Tucked away, all she could do is panic as the vault doors shake and tremble. Why hadn't her goblins secured before they left? Must she do everything herself? Minutes of struggle come and go. Maybe they can't open it? Maybe they'll give up and return to town? Wouldn't that be lucky! Hollista clasps her hands together and begs for all the good luck she's owned. Spider webbing drops from the ceiling. Greasy strings plop right on her head and she screams.

"You hear that?"

Fuck.

"S-Sounds like someone's in there."

Fuck!

"Think it's another goblin?"

Hollista's teeth chatter into a fit. That's right. It's a goblin. Just a goblin! Move on! Please. M-Move on!

"Look at this place. If I was a evil heretic, I'd want to hold up here. It just screams evil. And creepy. But mostly evil. Help me with the door. We're cracking it open. And guess what, everyone's helping."

FUCK.

The vault doors creak open. Torchlight spills into the black. Adventurers march in and she counts their number. It's too many to take on at once. The three in front take to the center of the room. The rest keep to the doorway, eyes on both the chamber and the tunnel they came through, ever-vigilant. Hollista clasps her mouth. Don't make a sound. Don't make a move. They'll leave. They're gonna have to leave!

And then something catches her attention.

Fighter moves clockwise round the west wall. He's looking in the wrong spot but as he lifts up her torch and shines the light, her goblin brain crashes to a halt. There's something. Something about that movement she's suppose to remember. Remember...? Instinctively...? Wall searched, he moves towards the altar. Then one of the swordsmen does the same. He goes to the exact same wall. Lifts up the torch and searches it again, commenting on the skull-head mounted there. Why? There are skulls all around the place. Is it the banner draped under it that catches their attention? Then comes Female Caster. She sports a small lamp and even she goes to it. Perhaps encouraged by the presence of the other adventurers to take a trembling step towards it.

Hollista grabs at her head. What? She doesn't understand! What's so important about it?

Let's think this through. If something's dark, humans like to use a light to make it easier to see. She already knows that. But if there's something in the dark, humans like to investigate it. They'll touch it. Remark on it. Note it in their heads that might be something important. So these adventurers are easily distracted? So what! It's not useful at the moment. Hollista turns her attention back to the other adventurers in the doorway. They talk amongst themselves. Fighter walks back to the west wall and waves the rest over. Why? He's already seen it! The ranger and archer head over. Bottle-lights in hand, they too shine a light on it.

Now only one stands in the way. The heavy knight. This is her chance.

Hollista inches out of the safety of the darker shadows. She doesn't dare risk standing on two feet. On her hands and knees, she crawls a desperate path round the vault door. She crosses the threshold. Only a little more and she'll be- Heavy Knight announces to the rest he's going to take a piss. Hollista scrambles faster. She bolts down the tunnel and oh fuck, he's heading in the same direction!

Moonlight ebbs down from the ceiling collapsed round here.

Above is a skylight with a straight shot of the surface. She's fucked. Hollista presses herself against the wall. She's fucked! Damn it. Why'd he have to go in her direction? There are plenty of better places to piss. It's a ruin. Couldn't he have done it at the end of a tunnel? Or better yet, before even heading out on the quest? Curse him! Heavy Knight stomps to the opposite wall and lets down his pants, whizzing.

Hollista crumples in disgust.

How could her luck be any worse? He pees for nearly five whole minutes. Think of it. Five minutes stuck smelling groin-cup cock and urine! God, it's so sweaty. Musky. The stench is dizzying! He shakes himself off and then curses. Got piss on his boots. Gee, how terrible. Hollista resists the urge to add a little spit on them too.

He turns to her wall and then suddenly, there's a cock in her face.


End file.
